


I could not love thee, Dear, so much...

by RogueBelle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Challenge Response, F/M, House Tully, Pre-Canon, Rating: PG13, Romance, Weddings, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catelyn Tully faces her role as one component of an unexpected, politically-motivated double wedding, and must remember the words of her House: Family, Duty, Honour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I could not love thee, Dear, so much...

She was, undeniably, a lovely bride.

The gown was brand-new, never worn before this morning, specially designed to mark the merging of two great houses. She had worked on the embroidery for months, working a grey-silver design into the river-blue fabric. Her maiden's cloak had been in the family for generations, the leaping fish worn on the shoulders of grandmothers and great-aunts before they had gone off to start new lives as Darrys or Mootons or Pipers. Her hair had been brushed to a glossy sheen, the curtain of thick auburn locks cascading prettily down her back, falling softly about her face. Catelyn Tully had always been regarded as a very pretty girl, but today, she appeared with all the radiant beauty of the Maiden.

It did rankle, a bit, to have to share the day, but Catelyn was determined not to be petty, not when Lysa was so patently miserable. At least Catelyn had had the time to fashion her gown; Lysa's, like everything about her union, had been hastily thrown together, particoloured red and sky blue, with a cream trimming that had been torn off of another dress and re-used. Lysa should have been nearly as lovely as her sister, but the comparison would have been hard to make, with the younger sister half-collapsed on her bed, eyes red and teary, the exertion of sobbing turning her complexion blotchy.

"Jon Arryn is a good man," Catelyn tried to soothe her. "He will be kind to you."

"What does that matter?" Lysa wailed. Before Catelyn could explain that it mattered a great deal, she sobbed on, "He's _ancient_! Father's so cruel to force me to wed him just for this stupid alliance in this stupid war, when I'd much rather--" Here she broke off into full-fledged hysterics again, pummeling a feather pillow with balled-up fists. Catelyn sighed. There was clearly going to be no consoling her, but Catelyn had to find a way to make Lysa presentable for the ceremony.

"Look on the bright side, my sweet," she said, putting an arm around her sister's shoulders. "At least you needn't go to the Eyrie right away, nor I to Winterfell. We'll stay here at Riverrun, safe as can be, until the fighting's over, and it -- it will give you time to get used to the idea of being married to Lord Jon."

Lysa sniffled theatrically. "It will give him time to be gracious and die in battle!" she howled. "Then I can marry who I will, someone young and handsome!"

Catelyn pursed her lips together in a thin line. "That is hateful talk, Lysa, and quite beneath you. You should not wish so ill for your husband. Such thoughts may rebound on you in ways you would not like."

"Oh, spare me!" Lysa spat, and Catelyn mustered her reserves of patience. "What right have you to console me? You lose one betrothed lord, one who was young and comely and charming, and you get another, straightaway, just as young! Even if he is quiet and dour, at least he isn't old enough to have sired your own father!"

Sighing heavily, Catelyn pushed to her feet, feeling extremely taxed, and in no mood to have her misfortunes flung at her. It was already requiring enough constraint to keep herself from dwelling on the fact that she was about to wed Eddard, not Brandon, Stark. She remembered, too clearly, the last she had seen of her first betrothed...

_"Fear not, my sweet," Brandon had said, with a gallant and sweeping bow as he raised Catelyn's pale hand to his lips. "This errand won't keep me long. Just a few things to see to at Winterfell, and then I shall return to prepare for our wedding."_

His grin had been so charming that Catelyn hadn't been able to find it in her to begrudge him the trip north, even if she didn't understand its necessity. She had believed that if he said he would return soon, then he would. Brandon Stark would have kept his word, were it in his ability.

Go north on an errand he had, but not briefly, and when he came south again it was not to wed, but to die. And now Catelyn was to wed not the man who had spent months at Riverrun courting her, not the dashing charmer who had gazed at her with such worship in his eyes while they danced, but a man she hardly knew, the quiet shadow, the second Stark. _'At least I know him to be a man of honour,'_ she thought. The Starks were all men of honour. _'There must be comfort in that.'_ Though a small part of Catelyn did wonder how much Eddard's offer had to do with honouring his brother's marriage contract and how much of it had to do with securing the military support of Hoster Tully. But she could hardly fault the man for that; his sister had been abducted, his own life declared forfeit for Brandon's impetuous actions. The support of House Tully would bring along man of the Riverrun lords.

 _'Enough,'_ Catelyn told herself. _'No sense drowning in it now. I've no intention to work myself into a blubbering mess like Lysa.'_

She looked down at her sister. Clearly the coddling route was not working, nor was appealing to Lysa's good sense. And Catelyn had her own preparations to be getting along with. "Lysa," she said, her voice becoming stern, "I have no way to comfort you if you refuse all reason. All I am left with to say to you is this: 'Family, Duty, Honour'. You are a Tully. Do you behave like one. Do not shame us by forcing us to drag you to your own wedding, or by showing so poorly at the ceremony." But Lysa only continued to cry, and Catelyn, deciding there was nothing else she could do, left her sister's room.

Almost immediately, she ran into her father in the corridor. "Oh, my dear little Cat," Hoster Tully said, smiling broadly. He took Catelyn's face in his rough hands and kissed her forehead. "You look like your mother, gods rest her." There was a touch of sadness in his eyes, as ever there was at mention of Minisa. "What a credit you are to our house. But where is Lysa?"

Catelyn gestured helplessly. "Still in her room. I believe she is... somewhat distressed. This has all been so sudden for her."

Hoster's expression darkened significantly. "She and I have been over this," he grumbled, a hard edge to his voice. "By the Seven, the chit will comport herself with dignity, or I'll--"

Catelyn never had a chance to hear what her father would do, for he stormed by her and into Lysa's chambers, slamming the door thunderously behind him. _'She's bringing it on herself, carrying on like that,'_ Catelyn thought, pushing away the twinge of sympathy that nearly beckoned her to run to her sister's rescue. _'Mayhap Father will have better luck than I did... gentleness wasn't seeming to have much of an effect...'_ Catelyn went on to find her septa, to spend the morning in Riverrun's godswood, in prayer and reflection before the wedding ceremony.

~~*~~

Lysa did turn up on time, and if she did not look quite the joyous blossom of womanhood a bride should be, at least she had stopped weeping. The joint ceremonies went off as perfectly as could be expected, and if they were less than the magical visions of a young girl's dreams, well, there was a war on, and no more could be expected. Catelyn let these practicalities drive her thoughts as she changed her Tully leaping fish for a Stark direwolf, and shared her first, perfectly chaste kiss with her new husband.

Eddard seemed much as Brandon had described him, much as Catelyn remembered him from their few prior meetings: very still, very straight, very stoic. For most of the wedding feast, Catelyn felt that her husband was preoccupied. Most of the men, truly, looked as though they were chomping at the bit. They had ridden south and west, from the lands sworn to Winterfell, or from the Vale, and it was not for a wedding that they had left their homes. What women were present were those of the Riverlands, and they were outnumbered by the boisterous fighting men. _'Men and wars,'_ Catelyn thought, as she watched one young knight acting out an imagined battle for his fellows, telling a tale with great gusto, and so much enthusiasm that he knocked over his goblet. _'Why is it they like nothing better?'_

But then she looked at her husband, and realised it was not the high spirit of bloodlust she saw there, but something rather more sombre.

When it came time to put the couples to bed, Catelyn smiled and laughed, pretending to be as amused and titillated as she knew a pretty young bride ought to be. It would put Eddard at ease, she hoped, to see her merry, and perhaps distract attention from Lysa. Catelyn was far from certain that Lysa, shyer by nature, would be able to hold in tears as the knights and lords of the Eyrie pulled off her fine gown and sent her to bed Jon Arryn.

There were few enough women of the Riverlands to be split between the two grooms, but the brides had accompaniment a-plenty as they were hustled up the stairs to separate quarters. Catelyn found herself surrounded by the rough, boisterous lords of the north. The ribald jests thrown at her were nothing new; she blushed, as became a maiden, but was not surprised or shocked. It was Martyn Cassel, though, who found the words to touch her, whispering in her ear, even as William Dustin was plucking at the laces on her undergown, "Fear not, my lady. Ned's a good lad."

The next few minutes were a blur, bundled into bed as she tried to preserve some little modesty, covering herself with her hands from interested eyes. Mark Ryswell whistled loudly in appreciation, and called across the room, where the women were finishing with Eddard. "Ned! This one's far too pretty for you to handle! Sure you wouldn't rather let one of us take your place?" Much to Catelyn's surprise, she saw a shy grin slide over Eddard's features, if briefly.

"I think I'll manage, Mark, thank you." Some old biddy cackled, and made a remark about it looking like he could handle a woman just fine; Catelyn was still too embarrassed to look for herself.

Martyn Cassel, after a few more minutes, managed to hustle the men out of the chamber, and the women likewise faded away. Some remained, though, just outside the door, shouting encouragement and suggestions. Catelyn stared demurely down at the crisp white sheets. She heard Eddard sigh, and rise from the bed he'd just been pushed into. Somehow, she found the courage to raise her head, and watched as Eddard loped across the room to draw a thick tapestry over the door, muffling the noise from outside. She smiled. "Thank you, my lord."

"I've always thought it a strange tradition," Eddard said, not quite meeting her eyes as he moved back to the bed. Catelyn let her eyes gaze shyly over him; he was slimmer than Brandon, but she could not bring herself to think of how else they might have compared. "It hardly seems conducive to bringing man and wife into a peaceable union." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I know I am not--" he began, then broke off, looking discomfited. "I know this is not what you had expected," he restated, "but I do hope... I expect we will suit. I will do everything I can to make Winterfell a comfortable home for you, once this war is over. I hope I will give you no cause for complaint."

Catelyn had to smile. "You are most gracious, my lord. I vow, I will-"

But he held up his hand. "You do not need to make promises."

 _'Family, Duty, Honour.'_ The refrain pounded through her head again. "But I must, my lord. Eddard." She reached out for his hand, and their eyes met. "You were correct. This is not what I had anticipated. But I would not want you to think I am less content in this union for its being so... abrupt. I will be a good wife, my lord. I vow to try never to give you reason to find fault in me, or to... to regret that fate threw me in your path."

He reached for her, so slowly that when his hand finally touched her cheek, it took her a moment to realise it had actually happened. He drew her in to a kiss, gentle but with no lack of desire, and reached to move the sheet that covered her...

~~*~~

The assembled armies of Stark, Arryn, and Tully were ready to leave by the middle of the next morning.

Lysa said farewell to her lord and husband with reddened eyes; Catelyn wondered if she had slept for weeping, and felt torn between loyalty to her sister and pity for Jon Arryn. At least, though, she showed her husband a measure of respect and duty; to her father, Lysa gave the iciest of curtseys, and stiffly endured his attempt at an embrace with her arms locked firmly at her sides.

"Stay, my lord," Catelyn implored. "Just a few days longer. So that we might know each other before you leave." _'So that I might know what husband I had, should you fall in battle.'_ "Surely a few days will make no great matter, in the end."

"Robert is besieged," Eddard said, raising his hand to touch her hair, with a softness that his eyes could not give over. "I am needed at Stoney Sept. And if I am ever to discover Lyanna's whereabouts, and recover her..."

Catelyn ducked her head to hide her blush of shame. "Of course. I am sorry, my lord."

Catelyn rushed from the road up to the battlements, to watch the host from the wall. She stood there a long while, as the individual horses became an indistinguishable dark mass on the landscape, and then faded past her vision entirely. She stood still, as misty grey clouds rolled over the horizon. _'Winterfell grey,'_ she thought, gazing at the sky.

 _'He will return,'_ she told herself. _'He will return, and take me to Winterfell, and we will have time to know each other, maybe even love each other. This will all be settled. All will be well.'_

 

  
  
_"I could not love thee, Dear, so much,_  
Loved I not Honour more."  
\--Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this work, please check out [my blog](http://cassmorriswrites.com)! I also write original fiction, and my debut novel will be out January 2018.


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